The Spirit Wood

by Robert Masello

  “Just put it out on one of the tables,” Anita said, “wherever you can find room. We'll be ready to go just as soon as your husband gets back.”

  Back? “Where is he?”

  Anita looked up from the notecards. “Last I saw him he was at Jack and Joan's place. They all should have been here already,” she said with some irritation.

  Meg set the sculpture down on a table crowded with framed oil paintings, a leather-bound set of Dickens, binoculars, a lamp with a Buddha base. Lazaroff boomed out a hello over three rows of people and tried to introduce someone named Ginny; all Meg could see was a tousled head of blond hair and a hot-pink halter top. If praying hard enough could make you invisible, Meg thought as she and Mrs. Constantine made their way toward the back of the tent, she'd most definitely be invisible now and stay that way for the next two or three hours. But standing in back would have to do.

  Mrs. Constantine sat down on one of the few remaining empty chairs. Meg was telling her about a package that had arrived from Byron the day before, containing a Cumberland University sweatshirt (and a course catalogue, which she didn't mention), when Peter emerged from the house. Though Meg was facing the wrong way, she could tell he'd come out from the look on his mother's face: she suddenly stared past Meg with that now-familiar expression of regret and dismay. Meg turned. Peter must have just stepped out of the “skating rink” he had on his white sailor cap with the lowered brim, the baggy khaki pants he'd bought the week before, and, even on this stifling day, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the cuffs. Just behind him were Jack and Joan Caswell; they loitered at the fountain for a moment, as if waiting for someone. They were. An elderly man in a jaunty Panama hat, carrying a walking stick, followed them out of the house.

  “I wonder who that is?” Meg said.

  Mrs. Constantine didn't say anything. They slowly descended the hill, Peter with that odd shuffling gait he affected now. Stan Simon, in a Greek fisherman's cap, met them halfway.

  “Are you all right?” Meg asked. Mrs. Constantine had become deathly pale; she was clutching at the bodice of her dress. “Is something wrong?”

  Peter's head was turning; behind his sunglasses, he was scanning the crowd. He pointed now to where Meg was standing. The old man nodded, and started in their direction.

  “Do you want me to get your medicine? Do you want to go up to the house?” Meg knelt beside her chair. “Are you okay?” she asked, urgently now.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Constantine replied, but so shortly it was no more than a breath of air. Her eyes had fallen to her lap, as if searching for something there.

  Meg heard the old man's cane digging into the grass behind her. “Good afternoon,” she heard, in a clipped foreign accent. “I am an old friend of Alexander Constantine. Gregory Kesseogolou.”

  The name from the will; Meg recognized it. She turned and stood up. He was an inch or two shorter than she was, with leathery brown skin, a full mous- tache, and a sharp, slightly hooked nose. His eyes were as black and shiny as olives. She took his extended hand.

  “This lady I hope will remember me,” he said, inclining himself toward Mrs. Constantine. “I knew her many years ago, when I conducted some business with her father—rest his soul. I hope I may still call you Ellie?” he ventured, with a smile.

  Meg waited for Mrs. Constantine to reply. Or acknowledge him. She did neither. Finally, leaning forward on his cane, Kesseogolou took her hand himself and held it. “I was very sorry to hear about your father,” he said, then gently placed her hand back in her lap. Unfazed, he said to Meg, “I'm told you never met Alex.”

  “No, I didn't,” Meg replied, still watching Mrs. Constantine, who only now appeared to be breathing again.

  “That's a pity,” he said, wagging his head. “He was someone worth knowing . . . particularly in this day and age.”

  Mrs. Constantine suddenly looked up, as if she were beholding a ghost.

  “Ah, there now!” Kesseogolou said, with a laugh. “The same pretty eyes I remember. I suppose it's a shock to you, that I'm even still alive. Sometimes,” he said, glancing at Meg to include her in the joke, “it's a shock to me, too!” He laughed, and looked toward the gazebo, as if he were aware the auction was about to begin. “I will come and see you later,” he said to them both and, touching the brim of his hat, went to the front of the tent again. The Caswells had been holding a seat for him.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” Meg whispered, and Mrs. Constantine, taking a deep breath, nodded slowly.

  Anita was in the gazebo, tapping the microphone; Peter sat just outside, behind one of the auction tables.

  “If everyone could please take their seats . . .” Anita announced, “I think we're about ready.”

  There must have been over two hundred people under the tent now.

  “For those of you who don't get a chance to see People magazine, my name is Anita Simon"—Stan let out a whoop, and then there was a ripple of laughter—” and I'd like to welcome you all to our second annual fundraiser. What it's for, I think you all know by now. All of the proceeds from this auction will go toward creating the Passet Bay Nature Preserve, a refuge for all the beautiful birds and wildlife that everyone here today cares so very much about.”

  Meg wished that Byron could have been there to hear that. Mrs. Constantine seemed to be a little more in possession of herself; Meg reminded herself that Kesseogolou was the man Mrs. Constantine had once referred to, in Rumpelmayer's, as her father's mentor in, what was it, the “arts of corruption"?

  “This estate that we're on belongs to one of our newest neighbors in Passet Bay—Peter and Meg Constantine.” There was scattered applause. “And it's even got a name—don't you love places big enough to have their own names? Arcadia. I thought that name was so nice that I went and looked it up in the dictionary that Stan, my husband's, always quoting at me. And guess what I found out?” She held up one of the colored notecards. “According to Webster's, here's what Arcadia means.” Nervously, she cleared her throat. “ ‘A mountainous and picturesque district of Greece, celebrated as the abode of a simple, pastoral people, dwelling in rural happiness. Hence, figuratively, any region or scene of simple pleasure, rustic innocence, and untroubled quiet.’ “ With evident relief, she put the card down again. “Now isn't that a coincidence? Because if that's not a definition of what we're trying to create at the Passet Bay Nature Preserve—a place of ‘rustic innocence’ and ‘untroubled quiet'—then I don't know what is. So without any further ado, as they say, I'd like to present our host, and auctioneer for today, Peter Constantine.”

  Meg was nonplussed—Peter was going to be the auctioneer? Anita hopped down from the gazebo, and Peter took her place, standing between two of the slender wooden posts with microphone in hand. What in the world, Meg wondered, did the strangers in the audience make of him, this bizarre figure with the opaque sunglasses, the shapeless trousers, the long curly hair streaming out from under the crushed cap?

  "Kalos ilthate!” he shouted, throwing open his arms. “Welcome to Arcadia!”

  He followed up his greeting with some rapid-fire, and at times barely coherent, remarks on the Amazon River basin, the importance of maintaining an ecological balance in the world, and finally, the critical necessity of recognizing even in ourselves the primitive and inescapable components of our nature. “A nature preserve is as much for us as it is for any other animal that lives, or takes refuge, there. We have more in common with these animals than we have that separates us from them.” He reminded Meg of Jack Caswell droning on in his living room that night. “I'd like to think of Arcadia itself as a nature preserve, and the nature preserve as an extension of Arcadia. That, I think, is why we're all here today.”

  “Hear, hear,” Stan Simon called out, but Anita must have given Peter the high sign, because, at last, he got around to reading the rules of the auction: the floor price at which the bidding would begin on each item, the five-dollar increments necessary to raise the bid, the forms of payment required�
�cash and check only. He started out with a Chinese screen donated by Al and Betty Plettner. The bidding at first was a little slow, perhaps because everyone was still somewhat shy; a small group, composed of the Simons and Caswells, the Nashes and Larry Lazaroff, vigorously bid for each item just to get things moving along. After five or ten minutes, they had succeeded, and many others in the crowd were making offers on the golf clubs and oil paintings, bicycles, books, and even the Buddha lamp. To Meg's amazement, Peter proved to be an adept auctioneer, rattling away like a stand-up comic, glancing at the notecard that described each item, then embellishing the description with lavish praise of his own, lauding the donors, coaxing the members of the audience into raising their bids. When the Caswells’ framed letter from William S. Burroughs came up, he gave an impromptu disquisition on the life and works of the author, elevating him along the way to the ranks of a Tolstoy or Flaubert. A red leather banquette which had once adorned Stan Simon's restaurant, Rio, came equipped with a colorful history of its sitters. Peter claimed that an Oriental rug donated by someone Meg had never heard of had originally belonged to the Ayatollah Khomeini. “This is the very rug on which he sat while plotting the overthrow of the Peacock Throne!” People laughed, and bid higher.

  It was only with the last item of the day, the statue of the dancing girl, that he momentarily faltered—he seemed to recognize it the moment Anita held it up for display. For the first time, Meg felt he was looking in her direction. And at his mother, still seated, absorbed in her own thoughts. His chin was tilted up slightly, higher than it had to be, as if he were seeing them at an even greater distance. He identified the sculpture as the work of his wife, then paused again, as if embarrassed at extolling its virtues now. Anita saved him the trouble, taking back the microphone and saying that Meg Constantine, a noted New York sculptor and pottery maker, whose works were even now being sold only through the most exclusive Soho galleries, had very graciously donated, in addition to the use of Arcadia itself, this special piece, commissioned for the auction and constructed—was that the right word? created—right here on the grounds. She'd hardly finished before Stan had obligingly put in the first bid, and Joan Caswell had raised it. Several times the price went up without Meg's knowing who had increased it. A woman near the back, who bid twice, dropped out of the running when the $300 barrier was broken. Meg couldn't decide if she should feel flattered or uncomfortable; after all, how much of this bidding had anything to do with the piece itself? Toward the end, only Stan and one other bidder remained, going head to head. At $750, the other bidder won out. Stan flopped his hands at his sides, as if to say he'd finally been outdone; Anita walked toward the second row of seats, where the Caswells were sitting, and placed the statue—Meg, craning her neck, could just make out the black band of his Panama hat—in Kesseogolou's lap. “He bought it, didn't he?” Mrs. Constantine said. “Kesseogolou.” It was the first time she had said his name.

  “Looks like it,” Meg replied, “though I can't imagine why.” And yet, disturbed as she'd always been about this piece, she felt some sneaking sense of exultation now: $750!

  Anita kept the microphone—whatever energy Peter had been running on now seemed to have evaporated—thanked everyone for their participation and generosity, and promised to keep them all informed of the status of the Passet Bay Nature Preserve through regular notices in the town newspaper.

  It's almost over, Meg thought. It really is almost over. Watching the crowd disperse toward the front of the house, towing golf carts and bicycles, clutching paintings and Cuisinarts and lamps and old Bing Crosby records, she was reminded of those columns of refugees seen in wartime newsreels, retreating from the front with whatever they could salvage. Clouds, great woolly banks of them, were approaching front the west.

  Maybe it would rain, after all. The summer had been so dry, they could use it.

  “I think I'll go on up to the house now,” Mrs. Constantine said, rising slowly, one hand touching the seat of the chair until she was on her feet again. “I didn't sleep very well last night.”

  “I'll walk with you,” Meg said, looking around for Mr. Kesseogolou so that they could avoid him on their way back. He was still seated, surrounded now by the Caswells, the Simons, Lazaroff and his girlfriend. Perhaps a dozen other people, strangers to Meg, were dawdling on the back lawn still, inspecting the gazebo or the fountain, snooping at the border of the woods.

  Come on, rain, Meg thought.

  Inside, the house was dim and cool; passing through the front foyer and across the pebbled floor mosaic, Meg paused just for a second—had something been changed in here? What was it? Before she could think, Mrs. Constantine asked, leaning hard on the banister, “Are you coming up?”

  “Yes,” Meg said, going to her aid. She hadn't wanted to ask directly for help, Meg could tell. But she needed it.

  “I'm going to leave tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Constantine said.

  This was earlier than she'd planned; it must have had to do with Kesseogolou.

  “Meg, I think that you should leave with me.”

  Mrs. Constantine went into her room and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. When she raised her eyes, they were tired and frightened. “I'm not asking you to leave Peter; I would never do that. I am asking you to leave Arcadia, to go back to Mercer and wait for Peter to come to you there. It may be the only way to get him to leave here himself.”

  “What if he doesn't come?” Meg asked, as much of herself as Mrs. Constantine. “As it is, there's only a few weeks left till the term begins in Mercer, and then he'll have to leave.”

  “Will he? It seems to me he has everything he needs, or thinks he needs, right here. You may be the only bait sufficient to lure him away. Though with Kesseogolou here now . . .” She trailed off.

  “What about Kesseogolou?” Meg said. “Why do you think his being here will make any difference either way?”

  Mrs. Constantine looked unsure herself, unable to formulate it exactly. “Peter has already changed too much,” she finally said. “He's resembling his grandfather more and more every day. The walk, the hat, the strange way he's behaving. There was only one thing lacking up till now, and that was a mentor, someone to encourage him in all this.”

  “Actually, I thought Caswell—”

  “Jack Caswell, you're right, has been an influence. But he can't do what a man like Kesseogolou can; he doesn't know what Kesseogolou knows. I don't think anyone does. Except perhaps Nikos.”

  That was a surprise: Meg didn't think of Nikos as knowing anything of real importance.

  “If he hasn't been already, Peter will be turned against me. I can't stop it anymore, and I don't know if my heart is strong enough to stand by and watch as it happens.”

  “Why would Peter turn against you? What could Kesseogolou—or anyone—do that would make him turn against his own mother?” Mrs. Constantine's physical frailty had worried Meg most of all until now; now her mental state seemed equally precarious. Meg wondered if it was safe to keep her at Arcadia for even another night.

  “He'll tell him the truth,” Mrs. Constantine replied numbly. “That will be enough.” She inched backwards onto the bed and lay down with her eyes closed, and her hands clasped across her chest. “Meg, I'm sorry,” she said.

  Meg shushed her, removed her shoes, and said, “Just try to get some rest. We'll talk later.” Outside, she could hear the last of the cars crunching along the gravel drive on their way to the main gate. Mrs. Constantine, already half-asleep, muttered something indecipherable; her eyelids twitched, as if she were entering a place she feared.

  The phone was ringing as Meg crossed the hall; the cord was stretched into Peter's darkened study, and as she ran to catch it, she thought she felt paper crackling under her feet. She answered the phone and flicked on the desk light at the same time.

  “Hello?” she said, looking down at the crumpled sheets covering the floor of the study.

  It was Byron—as she'd hoped. “I thought I'd be the first
to congratulate you on the conclusion of the ‘Let's Pretend We Give a Damn about Nature’ auction. It is over by now, isn't it? Meg?”

  She had picked up one of the pages, seen that it was part of Peter's dissertation. Dozens of other pages—maybe the whole thing—littered the room and spilled from the wastebasket.

  “Meg? You there?”

  She said that she was, then told him what she'd just discovered. Even he seemed stunned.

  “When did he do it?”

  “It must have been this morning sometime. Before the auction. And yes, it's over.”

  “Just the auction?”

  It took a second for Meg to catch his drift. She slumped in the chair; on the surface of the desk, she now saw the open pyxis. With the plastic bag inside, and razor nestled beside it. Insult to injury.

  “Yes,” she said, “maybe it is.”

  “Where's Peter?”

  “Still out back, I suppose.” Who with? Caswell? Lazaroff? Kesseogolou? “He's probably with his friends celebrating the creation of another little Arcadia, out there on those nice, harmless wetlands.”

  “They've succeeded, then?”

  Meg weighed the question. “Totally,” she said. “With the nature preserve. With Peter. With me.” A sculpture she'd been working on had been deliberately destroyed, she said. The man mentioned in the will, Kesseogolou, had shown up, completely out of the blue, and effortlessly terrorized Mrs. Constantine. And even now, she said, cocking her ear toward the open door of the study, she could hear the sound of Nikos's “Pan pipes” playing on the back lawn. “He claims to have invented the instrument himself, by the way.”

  Now she heard a dull, thudding drumbeat, and a jingling, added to the strains of the pipes. “Hang on a second,” she said and, putting the phone down beside the pyxis, went out onto the bedroom balcony. Down by the boathouse, and partially obscured by the striped tent, shadowy figures moved in a sort of circle, dancing, it seemed. The light in the boathouse was on, shining yellow. The sky was rapidly darkening, with dusk and the storm clouds lumbering in from the west. It was almost as if the auction had been no more than an overture, the pretext, for this . . . whatever it was . . . now unfolding, unannounced but premeditated, for its own select congregation.